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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693649">Poems About Death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggicSorceress/pseuds/MaggicSorceress'>MaggicSorceress</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Undertale (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Gods &amp; Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Human, Geno is a poet, I was struck by inspiration, I'm such a hopeless romantic sometimes, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, M/M, Poetry, Reaper is smitten, Reaper's job is hard, and Death of course, but ofc he is, like geez</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:47:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693649</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaggicSorceress/pseuds/MaggicSorceress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Death doesn't believe there's anything mortals can possibly teach him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>AfterDeath - Relationship, Geno/Reaper, Reaper/Geno</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Poems About Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong> <em>Don’t ever laugh as a hearse goes by</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>The grass crunched under his feet as he trudged through the empty field, paying little mind to the trail of darkening grass that he left in his wake. His face was set in a neutral smile that hardly ever wavered; eyes obscured by the large hood that lay over his head. Billowing behind him, his large cloak fluttered although there was no wind and seemed to even blur or break off in places, curling and drifting with a mind of its own. The owner of the cloak continued on through the field, spurred on by a gentle tugging at his rib cage.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>For you may be the next to die</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>On the far end of the clearing sat a large oak tree, with wide twisting branches that stretched out high above the ground. Autumn had shaken the tree bare of all its leaves so that they, instead, lay scattered in brown and orange patches around the tree’s base. The tugging on his sternum grew more insistent the closer he drew to the twisted oak, the leaves on the ground doing little more than crumbling to dust as they came into contact with both the bare bottoms of his feet and his drifting cloak.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>They wrap you up in bloody sheets</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Hanging from the tree were two humans, a boy and a girl, looking strangely peaceful even as their bodies twitched and struggled against the rope around their necks to draw air into their lungs. He watched their last moments, apathetic, and with a swirl of cyan magic he summoned a large scythe into his right hand, the handle made of a variety of bones. When the two humans hanging from the tree stopped twitching, he swung his weapon expertly through their chests. Not a drop of blood spilled as their souls were torn from their bodies and sent to the underworld the second they made contact with his blade. He and his brother would deal with the souls later.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>To drop you six feet underneath</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>The bodies gave no reaction to the absence of the souls that used to reside in them. They continued to hang, blissfully peaceful despite their blue lips and the lines of drool running from the corners of their mouth down their chins. In its own morbid way, the sight was almost beautiful. Death himself found it quite poetic. Perhaps those two had been lovers, tired of suffering whatever fate they had been forced to accept, forced to stay apart. Some sort of <em>Romeo and Juliet</em> kind of thing.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>They put you in a pinewood box</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Sometimes he felt almost…bad for being so unaffected by the death of mortals, but maybe that was because he was constantly exposed to it with his line of work. Come to think of it, he was used to a lot of things thanks to his job. Mortals liked to fight their fate, no matter how futile it was. They called him cruel and heartless, spat in his face and cursed his existence, but he didn’t even flinch anymore, letting them fight and sling their insults before ultimately doing his job and taking their soul.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And cover you up with dirt and rocks</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Dealing with those sorts of people was much easier than dealing with those who cried. The mortals who simply saw him and broke down into sobs, their entire forms quaking with the emotion behind it. They didn’t run, didn’t fight, just accepted their fate and cried. He could handle many things, but seeing those sorts of sights always left him at a loss for words.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>It all goes well for about a week</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>He confronted a friend of his about his particular predicament when he was visiting her garden one day, legs folded beneath him as he tried to affect the least amount of grass with his life draining aura. She sat a little away from him, sipping primly from a teacup as she listened to his story. Then, when she was sure he had finished, she placed down her cup and smiled at him, patient and understanding.</p>
<p>“They cry because they don’t want to leave those that they love.” She said.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And then your coffin begins to leak</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“But why?” He asked. “It’s not like they’ll never see them again.”</p>
<p>“Everything is unsure to mortals.” Life said, twirling a blade of grass around a finger. “They never know for certain what will happen.”</p>
<p>“I just…don’t understand.” He said, eyes downcast. “Is that a bad thing?”</p>
<p>Life’s smile grew as she reached across the space that separated them, placing her hand on the grass a scarce distance from his knee.</p>
<p>“It’s not a bad thing.” She soothed. “It just means there is a lot that mortals can teach you.”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Death kept her words at the back of his mind as he worked, wondering what exactly she had meant by that. He wondered what mortals could possibly teach him that he didn’t already know. He was thousands of years old, just a little younger than Life herself, and, in his mind, he had seen and experienced everything he possibly could.</p>
<p>
  <em>What could they possibly teach someone who already knows all that is important?</em>
</p>
<p>If anything, he had a thing or two he could teach them.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>The worms play pinochle on your snout</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Mortals made the same mistakes over and over again, and they never learned from them. They fought stupid wars over meaningless things, forcing him to work longer and harder to keep up with the sheer onslaught of souls calling to him. Many thought themselves superior in every way, taking lives left, right, and centre, as if that were their job and not his own. He loathed how arrogant they could be in life, only to tremble before him when he was inevitably called to reap their own soul. Their very existence was contradictory at times and he often found that he could not understand why Life worked so tirelessly to create these souls that only turned and spat in her face in thanks.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>They eat your eyes, they eat your nose</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>The only mortals that Death ever took pity on, ever felt a smidge of guilt towards or a tightening in his soul, were children. They were innocent, after all, uncorrupted by the cruelty of the world or those who raised them, and when he was called to them he felt almost sad. They would be taken from the world far too soon to make any sort of difference in the lives that mortals were living, and he grew to hate those calls the most. He’d deny it if asked, but he hated having to take their souls, having to watch the lights go out of their wide and curious eyes as they left their families behind. He could only hope the afterlife would be kinder to them.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>As you begin to decompose</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“You came to visit me again!” The young girl exclaimed, bouncing in her hospital bed. Across her lap was the flat tray that food usually sat upon. Instead of food, however, the tray was covered with paper and an array of colourful crayons. She beamed at him, waving excitedly as he floated over to the foot of her bed.</p>
<p>“Of course.” He said, pulling himself up into the air to float over the end of the mattress, never touching it. “What are you drawing, little one?”</p>
<p>Enthusiastically, she picked up the paper she had been colouring on and showed him her masterpiece. The sheet was covered in a bunch of colourful little birds, clearly drawn by a child no older than six.</p>
<p>“They’re a bunch of birds, see?” She said, beginning to point at each sketch individually and name the type of bird it was. He listened, smiling softly and nodding along with her explanations.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>A slimy beetle with demon’s eyes</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Do you like birds?” He asked, content to just listen to her excited rambling for as long as he could.</p>
<p>She nodded. “I want to be one when I grow up, but mama says I can’t.”</p>
<p>He raised an eyebrow. “Why does she say that?”</p>
<p>“The doctors told her that I won’t be around when I’m older.” She said casually as she went back to drawing. Death tensed. “Mama got mad at me yesterday, too.”</p>
<p>“Why did she get mad at you?”</p>
<p>“’Cause I showed her the picture I drew of you. She got super mad and cried. She took the picture, so I can’t give it to you.”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Chews through your stomach and out your sides</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Death froze, letting the little girl’s words sink in. It only made sense, if the gradually more aggressive tugging at his rib cage was anything to go by. He shook himself from his stupor and smiled at her.</p>
<p>“That’s alright, little one.” He soothed. “I’m sure it was lovely.”</p>
<p>She smiled up at him. “It was!”</p>
<p>“So,” He began, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and his elbow on his knee. “What’s your favourite kind of bird?”</p>
<p>“Parrots!” She replied immediately. “’Cause they can speak! Have you ever heard a parrot speak?”</p>
<p>He shook his head, fond. “No, I haven’t.”</p>
<p>“It’s super cool, cause like,” She continued, flapping her own arms in an imitation. “They copy whatever you say!”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Your stomach turns to rancid grease </em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Very cool.” He agreed.</p>
<p>“If I was a bird, I’d be a parrot.” She said. “What bird would you be?”</p>
<p>“What if I’m already a bird?” He asked, a bit of a laugh in his voice. The young girl gaped at him, laughing as well.</p>
<p>“You’re not a bird, silly!” She said. “You’re a person!”</p>
<p>Death raised an eyebrow, calling upon scarcely used magic and letting it seep into his bones. As it sunk into him, and his form shrunk until in his place perched a large raven. The girl’s eyes lit up and she gasped, bouncing in her bed again. He cooed at her, giving his wings one powerful flap that had her papers scattering onto the floor. Still, she smiled and clapped.</p>
<p>Alerted by the sudden commotion, a nearby nurse came waltzing into the room, seeing only the young girl sitting in her bed, the mess of paper around her, and the window near her bed open wide. Smiling, the nurse shook her head and wandered over to close the window.</p>
<p>Death watched the window close before continuing down the street, the girl’s bird drawing tucked neatly into a fold of his cloak.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And puss pours out like melted cheese</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>True to his gut feeling, he returned to her only a few days later, the tugging at his chest growing painful. It was late at night and the hospital lights were off in her room. She slept fitfully, an oxygen mask fitted snugly around her mouth and nose. As if she felt his presence, she opened her eyes wearily and smiled at him. He felt his chest tighten.</p>
<p>“Go back to sleep little bird.” He soothed, kneeling down so he was eye level with her. “You’ll be alright.”</p>
<p>Heeding his words, she let her eyes slip shut and sleep reclaim her. Swallowing passed a lump in his throat; he gently placed a hand on her forehead.</p>
<p>He was gone before the machine hooked up to her began beeping and nurses began rushing in.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>You spread it on a slice of bread and that’s what you’ll eat when you’re dead</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Weeks had passed since then. He didn’t go to her funeral, even though he knew when it would be happening. It seemed utterly pointless for him of all people to attend such a thing.</p>
<p>So, he wandered for a while, throughout the town and nearby areas, invisible to all who passed him, and he watched. He watched people live their lives, watched them suffer and grow and learn and fall, over and over again. Until his wandering led him into a small secluded diner on the outskirts of the city, or, more accurately, the tugging on his chest led him there.</p>
<p>It was late, far passed closing hours, and yet the lights of the establishment were on and the doors were open. Quiet and unseen, he slipped through and entered the building.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And the worms crawl out, the worms crawl in</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Condensed into a corner of the diner sat about ten people in chairs spread out in a sort of haphazard semicircle. At the front of the semicircle sat a young man with fluffy blonde hair and blue eyes, a notebook in one hand as he read aloud to the crowd of people around him. His voice was smooth and melodious, rising and falling as he spoke. It must have been poetry he was reading, nothing else would flow so seamlessly. Death had wandered into the diner halfway through the poem reading, but from what he was currently hearing, nothing about this poem was sunshine and rainbows. It was morbid and deep, touching on what seemed like the loss of a family member and a deep-rooted fear of being alone.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>The ones the crawl in are lean and thin</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>And he <em>loved </em>it.</p>
<p>It was rare for him to love anything that mortals created, although there were few things. But this, this beautiful writing that this man had crafted, that drifted so elegantly from his lips and rolled effortlessly off his tongue, stirred something akin to curiosity in his stomach and he found himself disappointed when it was over and the people began clapping.</p>
<p>The man who had read the poem stood up at the applause, bowing a bit sheepishly, and pushing his chair back to its proper spot by a table. The listeners were quick to do the same, though one of them caught up with the man before he could leave the diner, pulling him off to the side. Death found himself listening in before he could question why.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>The ones that crawl out are fat and stout</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Beautiful writing as always!” The listener said. “But I’m curious, why so morbid all the time?”</p>
<p>The poet shrugged, smile going bashful and a little unsure. “I’m…not really sure. I guess Death just inspires me, you know? It’s…strangely beautiful it its own unique little way.”</p>
<p>Death froze and watched the interaction continue a minute or so longer, not catching everything that was said as his drifted in and out of focus, the poet’s words reverberating around in his head. By the time he had shaken himself out of it, the diner had cleared out and he was hovering alone in the dark, hands absentmindedly twisting a long part of his cloak around his hands. Strangely, his stomach felt warm, similar to the heat that came when he used his magic but stronger, more intense, and it almost…tickled?</p>
<p>He pressed a hand to his sternum over where the tugging was the most prominent and frowned.</p>
<p>
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Your eyes fall in and your hair falls out</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Despite having plenty of other things that he could be doing with his time, Death found himself returning to that diner every night to listen to the young man read. He had discovered a fair few things about him too just from listening in on conversations.</p>
<p>First of all, the man’s name was Geno. He was twenty-seven years old, had a degree in medicine, and did free-verse poetry on the side to help cope with the loss of his brother three years ago.</p>
<p>Secondly, Geno was suffering from many intense medical problems, many of which guaranteed that he wouldn’t make it passed his thirtieth birthday. Hence the tugging on Death’s ribs.</p>
<p>The reason why he had been called there that first night <em>made sense.</em></p>
<p>The reason why he kept coming back did not.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Your brain turns into maggot pie</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Something about Geno kept pulling him back, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Geno’s clock was ticking steadily towards his end. Whether he had some strange blooming fascination with the man, or he just loved the poems the other created, Death didn’t know. He was fully aware that he was wasting time over this meaningless fascination, but he couldn’t entirely bring himself to care as he listened to Geno’s voice read off such morbid poetry or gush over gothic writing with a listener or two. It made that warm feeling in his stomach return and spread up and throughout his bones. It was pleasant, and he didn’t really want the feeling to stop, not when most things in his life were far colder than it was.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>Your liver starts to liquify</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>What was different about this particular night, he didn’t know. Geno read like he always did, and Death hung around for a minute or two afterwards to listen to him talk to his listeners. Then, just as always, he went home and tried to get a few hours of sleep before the calling of the near dead would awaken him and he’d have to start working again.</p>
<p>But this time, he couldn’t fall asleep. Words that were not his own bouncing around in his skull.</p>
<p>
  <em>Death just inspires me, you know?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I don’t care if people think it’s morbid, I like it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Personally, I find Death rather beautiful.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And for the living, all is well</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Stranger, yet stranger, the heat in his stomach spread up to his face and engulfed it in warmth as he stared up at his ceiling. Hesitantly, as if he was afraid, he raised a hand to his cheek and found it warm under his touch, and the more he sat in silence, the more he heard the pounding of his metaphorical heart. Hand still pressed to his cheek, he sat up and stared at the wall across from his bed, thoughts racing until they came to a screeching halt.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh no…</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>Oh no…</strong>
</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>As you sink further into Hell</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>He made the decision to stop going to those poetry readings and to go back to worrying about work and only work, and in his defence, he lasted a whole two weeks before he caved and returned to the diner. He went disguised as a mortal this time around, one with dark hair and eyes with pale skin, not all that far off from how he normally looked if he was being honest. He sat in a chair near the back, hoping to stay out of Geno’s sight as he basked in more-so the sound of the poet’s voice than the content of his writing, though it wasn’t because he disliked the poetry, but he may have been a little tired and had a hard time paying much attention to little details.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“I haven’t seen you at my readings before.” Geno said. Shocked from his daze, Death snapped his eyes open only to stare up into the blue eyes of the poet. Momentarily stunned by the sight, he gaped as he fumbled around for words.</p>
<p>“I…I was just…passing by.” He stumbled. Geno smiled at him, small and a little awkward, and the sight of it so close to him had heat rushing to his face. He fought to remain composed.</p>
<p>“Oh, that’s nice to hear.” Geno said, shifting on his feet and holding his notebook to his chest. “I didn’t think anyone passing would have heard about my readings.”</p>
<p><em>Holy fuck he’s so cute…</em>Death thought before immediately pushing it from his mind.</p>
<p>“Uhm…” Geno continued. “I’m Geno. And you are?”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>They eat your guts and then shit them out</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“I….uhh…” Death panicked. “I-I have to go.”</p>
<p>Then, quick as a bird, he fled the diner and vanished, leaving behind a very confused and slightly flustered Geno. Reappearing on the edge of town in a forest, he dropped the disguise and flopped back onto the ground, grass and brush shrivelling up around him. Staring up at the sunlight flickering through the leaves, Death sighed and threw an arm over his forehead.</p>
<p>
  <em>What am I doing?</em>
</p>
<p>Behind him there came a splintering, and he just managed to roll out of the way to avoid a nearby tree falling onto him, affected by his aura. Face down in the dirt, he groaned and stretched his arms out, content to just lay on the ground until the earth inevitably reclaimed him.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And when your bones begin to rot</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Some undetermined amount of time later, though it was probably only a day or so, Death returned to the diner to listen to Geno read again, and to see if he could potentially apologise for how abruptly he had left last time. He wandered into the old restaurant around half-way through Geno’s readings, disguising himself as he did.</p>
<p><em>“Death be not proud, though some have called thee.” </em>Geno was saying.</p>
<p>
  <em>“Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>For those, whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And soonest our best men with thee do go,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And poppy and charms can make us sleep as well.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>One short sleep past, we wake eternally,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.”</em>
</p>
<p>He sat in the back again and listened, lulled into a half-asleep state by the sound of Geno’s voice. How someone’s voice was able to put him in such a relaxed and peaceful state was beyond his understanding, but Geno as a whole, and how he felt about him, was beyond his understanding. When his reading had concluded for the night, Death steeled himself and headed over to Geno, praying that his sub-par social skills would let him have at least this.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>The worms remain, but you do not</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Hey.” He greeted, raising a hand. Geno turned at the sound of his voice and smiled at him. The warm fluttery feeling in Death’s gut returned and he crossed his arms over his chest, hoping to clamp down on the feeling before it could spread.</p>
<p>“Hi.” Geno said. “Nice to see you here again.”</p>
<p>“Yeah…” He said, leaning back on a nearby table. “Nice poetry, as always.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>An awkward silence descended upon them, and Death fought to break it quickly.</p>
<p>“Sorry about last time.” He said. Fumbling for a bit to think of something, he clutched at the dark hoodie he wore in-place of his usual cloak. “Uhm…you can call me Reaper. It’s what all my friends call me.”</p>
<p>His statement was technically true, but Geno still raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>“Reaper?” Geno said with a laugh. “Why? Cause you wear all black?”</p>
<p>Death shrugged. “I guess.”</p>
<p>“Well,” Geno said, smirking. “It’s nice to meet you, <em>Reaper.</em>”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>So, don’t ever laugh as a hearse goes by</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>Like clockwork, Death returned every night to the diner to sit and listen to Geno read, and occasionally talk to him for a bit afterwards when his work allowed him an extra hour to spare. He didn’t realise how much of a habit it had become until he arrived one day, and Geno simply wasn’t there. Confused as he was, Death instantly recognised the familiar tugging at his rib cage and the soul that was calling to him from its other end.</p>
<p>
  <em>No….please no…</em>
</p>
<p>He willed himself to where the soul was calling to him and materialised a moment later in the room of a hospital, the lights dim in the evening as the man on the bed continued to write in his notebook despite his critical condition. From how prominent the tugging at his chest was becoming the longer he stared at Geno, the more he realised just how close to, well, <em>death</em> the other was. And he had been so absorbed in other things over the past week or so that he hadn’t noticed until it was staring him in the face.</p>
<p>Death took a breath and allowed Geno to see him as he was, no disguise, no nothing, just him as he was meant to be seen. For a moment, those dull blue eyes bore into his own and Geno made no motion or noise of acknowledgement that would even suggest that he knew that Death was there. Then, the poet smiled, small and melancholy and tired.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>For someday you’ll be the one to die</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Have you finally come for my soul?” Geno asked, head falling back against his pillow.</p>
<p>Death nodded, not trusting his voice quite yet.</p>
<p>“…Took you long enough.” Geno chuckled, though it bordered more on a wheeze. Death inwardly cringed, unsure why he was reacting that way to a sound he had more than enough experience with.</p>
<p>“I’m a busy man, cut me some slack.” Death said as he tried to lighten the atmosphere. He paused for a long moment. “…Your poetry is beautiful.”</p>
<p>Geno’s tired eyes widened. “You heard it.”</p>
<p>He nodded. “I did.”</p>
<p>Geno seemed to deflate where he lay propped up, smile going slack and eyes softening.</p>
<p>“Good.” Geno whispered. “I’m glad you did. Now you can finally do your job.”</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>And when Death brings his cold despair, ask yourself</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>One of the machines next to Geno’s bed beeped as he approached, but he could barely hear it over the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He lounged in the air above where Geno lay, hood falling back to reveal eyes like the void as he reached out a ghostly pale hand, stopping its movement only an inch before the other’s cheek.</p>
<p>“…How can I claim a soul…” Death began, voice soft and cool as a winter breeze. “That has loved me so beautifully?”</p>
<p>When Geno smiled again, it was soft and, for a moment, he almost looked unsure.</p>
<p>“Does…does it hurt?” Geno asked. “To die?”</p>
<p>Despite not fully knowing the answer to that question, Death shook his head.</p>
<p>“It’s like waking up.” He said.</p>
<p>Geno nodded. “Alright.”</p>
<p>Then, Geno raised a trembling hand and reached up to where Death’s hand was still hovering by his cheek and, hesitantly, he thread his fingers through the gaps between the other’s own fingers. The gesture and the warmth of Geno’s hand shook Death down to his core and he watched, throat incredibly tight, as the light faded from beautiful blue eyes.</p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>‘Will anyone care?’</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>“Life?” Death began when he found himself sitting in her garden a few weeks later, inky black wings folded tightly around him as his gaze bore holes in the ground.</p>
<p>“Yes?” She said.</p>
<p>“…I understand what you meant all those years ago.” He said. “When you told me there were things mortals could teach me.”</p>
<p>Life was silent for a moment as she absorbed what her friend was saying, then, she turned to him and smiled softly. “And?”</p>
<p>“His name was Geno.” Death said. “And I think I fell in love with him.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>OOoooooohhhh BOY i love this concept! It makes my gothic romantic heart just implode and I NEEDED to put this out in the world.<br/>The poem I used in here is called 'Death be not proud' and it's by John Donne<br/>The song is called 'The Hearse Song' by Rusty Cage<br/>Hope you guys liked it! Comments and kudos are always lovely! &lt;3<br/>-Maggic</p></blockquote></div></div>
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